


Starry Eyes

by januarywren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Hermione Granger, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Ambition, Crack Treated Seriously, Creature Tom Riddle, Cunnilingus, Doggy Style, Enthusiastic Consent, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Familiars, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Good Tom Riddle, Happy Ending, Healthy Relationships, Hermione Granger-centric, Humor, Light Dom/sub, Light-Hearted, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Mutual Pining, No Angst, Obsessive Behavior, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, POV Hermione Granger, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Tom Riddle, Praise Kink, Pureblood Hermione Granger, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Sane Tom Riddle, Self-Esteem Issues, Sex, Sexual Tension, Size Difference, Smut, Tom is a Sweetheart, Urban Fantasy, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28331688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarywren/pseuds/januarywren
Summary: “Mr. Riddle,” she greeted, on the third ring.She wouldn’t let herself stutter, forcing the butterflies down.“You never listen, do you, Hermione?” a smooth voice replied, “Please, call me Tom.”“I prefer Mr. Riddle,” Hermione countered, continuing their usual argument. There was something about the man that made her feel like he was the predator and she the prey – clinging to the use of his last name was one boundary she could put between them. No matter how many times she had mewled his first name before. “You are my landlord, after all.”“I am, aren’t I?” Tom said, amusement clear in his tone. “Shall I expect Minerva to bring it by again, say, next week then, Hermione?”"She could if you'd like."“And if I’d prefer her witch to come with?”Urban Fantasy | Tomknowswho he wants. Does Hermione?
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 38
Kudos: 281





	Starry Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Primavera10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Primavera10/gifts), [weeRedVixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeRedVixen/gifts), [MetalVenomLudens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetalVenomLudens/gifts), [peachycupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachycupcake/gifts), [MissTrixxie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissTrixxie/gifts), [Angie24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angie24/gifts), [petitebegonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petitebegonia/gifts), [cigarettesandbruisedhips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cigarettesandbruisedhips/gifts), [runleapfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/runleapfly/gifts), [Natylogar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natylogar/gifts), [NiniJune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiniJune/gifts), [Hypatikar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatikar/gifts), [convictsmack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/convictsmack/gifts), [omnerron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omnerron/gifts), [GMGaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GMGaby/gifts), [katstails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katstails/gifts).



> A 5k fic? From me?
> 
> Yes! 🤍
> 
> Originally I wrote this as an original story - for a romance anthology - until I learned last week that it was cancelled. Instead of sending it to another contest, I decided to turn it into a tomione fic for everyone to enjoy! 2020 has been a challenging year (to say the least) and we could all use some light-hearted tomione. :) 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for all your support and kindness. When I started writing fanfiction last year, I never expected the incredible response my work would receive - it's inspired me to enter contests and anthologies with my original work, as well as participating in fan zines and fandom challenges/big bangs. Reading your comments and uploading new chapters/work is the highlight of my day, my week, my month - every reader here is the kind a writer dreams about. 
> 
> I hope that you all had a very merry Christmas, and a wonderful New Year! 💖🥂

“You can’t be serious!” the woman protested, her tone changing from expectant to pleading, as she found herself unceremoniously pushed away from the storefront. “I need that spell, Hermione, _please_ – “

“And I said no,” Hermione replied firmly, shutting the front door as she did so. She flipped the sign from ‘OPEN’ to ‘CLOSED’ and murmured a spell beneath her breath, sealing the locks for good measure. There was never any telling what a desperate Fae might do, especially one demanding a love potion.

There was a reason why Hermione never brewed nor sold love potions in her shop; the magic involved far too sinister and dark for her liking. No one ever wanted a love potion for a good reason, Hermione knew, and she refused to support it. 

And there was good reason for her caution, seeing as the family she came from was less than selfless. They were notorious, really, for how much they loved mischief and how they could misuse charms and spells, and everything magic in ways that no one else had.

Hermione sipped her espresso, faintly remarking to herself that her hair had the same coffee-colored shade as she tucked a curl behind her year and drew her wand. She cast a series of cleaning spells, as ingredients righted themselves into their colorful packaging, and potions floated back to their proper places on the shelves.

Dust mites scrambled for cover, as they found themselves sucked into a swirling vortex, never to be seen or heard from again. Hermione wouldn’t have any customers sneezing in her store, not after Mrs. Crumbles had blown exploding toadstools all over her shop, from her great sneezing fit. It had taken Hermione _hours_ to clean up - even with the use of magic - and for weeks after she found errant, mushy pieces of fungus scattered around every corner.

Hermione hummed as she bustled behind the front counter, and set about counting the till, before carefully marking what ingredients she needed to collect more of or send for via special catalog, the ingredients found by trained foragers.

There were few foragers that she trusted, as Hermione knew full well that more than one forager sold toad legs in place of frog legs, or their breath collected in a glass vial, in place of an _actual_ virgin's. They were forgeries that few would notice until their cauldron blew up in their faces, or their customer came crying to them that their potion had gone awry.

Ruefully, Hermione smiled, as she remembered her great-grandmother. With a hooked nose and wild eyes, her great-grandmother was more creature than witch and had adored her great-granddaughter. It was from her that Hermione learned to know the call of every bird in the forest and to tell the minute differences in the dirt that came from a freshly dug grave, compared to dirt from anyone's backyard, and teeth – well, her great-grandmother had been _obsessed_ with teeth, having a fine collection of them from numerous animals; both natural and magical. Her great-grandmother was one of the finest foragers that North America offered, though she had scammed any customer that displeased her (which was nearly every single one).

It was commonly acknowledged throughout the family that her great-grandmother was as mad as a hare, though Hermione thought the same could apply to nearly _all_ her relatives. Her family tree was one that was filled with disputes among cousins, secret affairs, and hordes of illegitimate children that inevitably emerged from the woodwork when an inheritance came into question. While most magical families were terribly fussy about their lines, the Granger family wasn’t. It all stemmed, Hermione’s uncle said, from their Founder, who was one of the first wizards to openly embrace Necromancy.

Whatever the cause, Hermione could never remember a time where all her relatives were speaking to one another, nor a time when they weren’t dogged by scandal. She saved quite a bit of money by never subscribing to a magazine or newspaper, seeing as at least one of her relatives was splashed across the front page. She loved all her family but kept them at a distance – she was the only one who wanted to establish their shop as a legitimate business, an idea they claimed held little merit.

She couldn’t help but smirk at that, seeing how well her shop had flourished within the first year of opening. There was a desperate need in the bustling, Maine neighborhood for all sorts of charms and potions, even the odd curse or two (though Hermione would never sell anything beyond a curse that made someone trip, or one that ensured someone would always lose the last button of their shirt, or that their shoes would always come untied.)

She sold to children and adults alike, though most were a part of the wizarding world already; little goblins and trolls coming to her door, alongside weeping ghosts, gorgeous vampires, and werewolves that always shed fur over the antique rug.

Yet there were muggles too, like the suburban moms who wanted something to soothe their newborn's cholic or a charm to provide them with a flawless tan, during a harsh winter. Hermione never turned anyone away because of their species – only because of their nature, like the foul-tempered ghost who'd threatened to burn her store to the ground (ignoring its entirely brick façade) after she refused to contact her distant aunt on their behalf or the clients who expected her to sell love potions.

There were limits to what magic could do, in Hermione’s opinion, as well as what it _should_ do. She was less inclined than her family to believe in divination, instead, she thought that any creature could decide their lives for themselves, and it wasn’t right to use magic to interfere – when it came to some things, anyway, like finding a mate or using a spell to take someone’s choices away. Nor could she bring the dead alive again - none of her family could despite their claims. The dead could weep, and they could wail, but there was little chance of giving them a physical body again. It was unnatural and unseemly, and Hermione wanted nothing to do with necromancy.

Overall, Hermione adored running her shop, especially when muggle children encountered magic for the first time. There was an uneasy truce between the wizarding and muggle world; a hesitant line between the wizarding and the well, _natural_ , as some muggles claimed their way of being was. They couldn’t accept the fantastical beings that lived among them, nor wishes or spells. Magic scared them in countless ways, ones that Hermione struggled to understand.

Her first memories were centered upon magic; her father creating singing canaries from newspapers. They had fluttered around her while singing the prettiest song, and Hermione had been enchanted with them. For months, she begged her father to teach her the spell, and she'd never felt prouder than her thirteenth birthday when he shared it with her.

“ _It’s about time you learned_ ,” her father said, a familiar smile on his lips, “ _You have your own wand now, and it would be terrible for you not to use it, love_.”

Nothing meant more to her, save for the first time she held Minerva in her arms.

She cherished the memory and wanted muggles to have a memory to cherish too; one that showed them what magic truly was. Most were open to it, while others refused to have anything to do with magic, distrusting any wizard or witch, and loathing _anything_ less than normal.

Thankfully, muggles like that were few and far between. 

Hermione loved when children would watch her cast spells with a look of wonder on their face, and they practically shuddered in excitement when they took one of her freebies home – there was little harm in giving them candy that would never mold, changing to whatever flavor they thought of, or a pen that would illustrate whatever they whispered to it, without having to hold it between their fingers. No, there was no harm in it at all, and no upset parent that would subsequently darken her door.

Truly, there was nothing that Hermione liked more – though after her day ended, there was sometimes a vague feeling of loneliness that crept upon her, a certain wistfulness that settled in her chest. She was only in her mid-twenties but found herself wanting…someone.

Something, more.

“Are you ready to go home, Minerva?" Hermione asked as a silver-colored tabby strolled across the counter. Her familiar purred in agreement, before rubbing her head against Hermione's hand. "You’re so sweet,” Hermione said, “but I won’t give you another treat, you know. You’re on a diet for a reason!” (The vet had scolded her the week prior for her familiar’s expanding girth, reminding Hermione that Minerva needed to lose four pounds before she could be considered outside of the obese category…) 

With her tail swishing, Minerva leaped from the counter, and on to the floor, where she promptly ignored her witch. There was always a fabric mouse or two to play with, and Minerva adored the catnip that was stuffed inside them. They were ones that Hermione made for her by hand, usually, while she listened to podcasts, or _occasionally_ watched an episode of reality TV. 

(Hermione knew they were scripted, and most of them a hopeless mess, but she loved them regardless – not that anyone would know. If anyone cared to ask her what she watched, Hermione would say she watched cooking competitions to unwind, even though she knew she would never learn how to make a risotto or how to knead bread by hand.)

Hermione startled as her cell phone rang, and her hand pulled it free from her pocket. She felt butterflies flutter inside her chest as she saw who was calling. “Mr. Riddle,” she greeted, on the third ring. She wouldn’t let herself stutter; forcing the butterflies down. 

“You never listen, do you, Hermione?” a smooth voice replied, “Please, call me Tom.”

“I prefer Mr. Riddle,” Hermione countered, continuing their usual argument. There was something about the man that made her feel like he was the predator and she the prey – clinging to the use of his last name was _one_ boundary she could put between them. No matter _how_ many times she had mewled his first name before. “You _are_ my landlord, after all.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Tom said, amusement clear in his tone. “Shall I expect Minerva to bring it by again, say, next week then, Hermione?”

"She could if you'd like."

“And if I’d prefer her witch to come with?” Tom asked, and she heard the accompanying smirk. They both knew why she’d sent Minerva to his door, after their encounter two months prior. Sick of the water that dripped through her store’s ceiling, Hermione had burst up the stairs, and into the apartment above –

Which happened to be Tom’s own.

Seeing the countless great-grandson of Medusa emerging from his bath had stopped Hermione short, and she doubted whether her cheeks had ever been as red as they were then. In the warm light of his apartment, she saw his shimmering scales, ones that blended seamlessly with his alabaster skin.

“ _Do you always introduce yourself to people this way_ , _Ms. Granger_?” Tom had teased, and she’d been, well – hopeless to reply, instead stuttering her apologies, and fleeing from his apartment.

His interest in her was sealed after that, and Hermione often found the man stopping in her shop. He came with a toy for Minerva and a treat for Hermione, somehow knowing that she had a sweet tooth. She was glad that she enjoyed running, after enjoying the chocolate muffins he brought, and the caramel truffles and the milk chocolate bars that burst with flavor on her tongue. At least, Hermione liked running until she found that Mr. Riddle – _Tom_ – enjoyed running too.

“ _Do you make a habit of stalking your renters_?” Hermione asked, the second time that he’d ‘joined’ her on her run in the park. She never liked to feel silly, letting herself believe as others might, that Tom Riddle was acting without thought. She knew from the moment she met him that he was _far_ from silly or rash.

He was dangerous.

“ _I thought you would enjoy my company_ ,” Tom said, in his nonchalant manner that made her want to smile, despite herself. “ _Unless I was wrong_.”

Her eyes had met his dark, unfathomable eyes, and she'd found herself unable to come up with a sharp retort. (Her mother, never adverse to a handsome man, would have laughed at her. " _Enjoy him, Hermione_ ,” she would have said.)

How long had it been since she was interested in someone? Perhaps high school, when her then-boyfriend had dumped her after having an unfortunate run-in with her Uncle, during a blood moon…

Or during college, when she'd found her warlock boyfriend trying to steal her treasure trove of potions, ones that her grandmother had brewed for her? He’d turned it on her when she caught him, saying that she was a frigid know-it-all, words that she’d never forgotten.

It was hard to pretend that her ex was wrong when Hermione knew that he was right. She was a frigid know-it-all, as much as the words made her ache inside. She hadn’t lost herself to love as others did, focusing on her studies, and practicing any spell that she could. Knowledge excited her more than her boyfriend ever had, though magic had never excited him…

She wasn’t going to admit any of her relationship troubles (or lack thereof) to her _landlord_ above all people though, especially one that made her cheeks flare, and her pulse race.

Instead, Hermione said little as they ran. She couldn’t stay silent the time after that, or every time after, as she found Tom’s smirk and his nature entirely _too_ appealing. He was serious yet inviting and was brimming with self-confidence. He easily kept pace with her, his long stride matching her effortlessly.

And when he’d followed her back to the shop, and reached for a charm high above her head? Hermione felt his chest press against her back, and found herself fully _aware_ of him – he was a predator and she the prey, the same as those his dangerous ancestor had invited in.

“Minerva would prefer to visit you alone,” Hermione said, “I think she prefers your company more than mine – or at least the treats and the toys that you give her.”

Tom chuckled, his voice like warm honey drizzled across her skin. “She’s adorable, isn’t she?” he said, and she pressed her thighs together. She remembered the compliments he’d given her before, the filthy things that he’d whispered in her ear - 

“I do wish that you’d come with me to New York,” Tom said, breaking the silence between them. “We could have spent our mornings running through Central Park, and you’d love the library here. Their archives have work from my ancestress, ones that only her heirs may read, and anyone they provide clearance to.”

Hermione shuffled papers aside, before glancing toward the door. No one was going to come barging in, not with the spells she’d cast on the door. She moved to sit in the antique chair that she loved while holding her cell close.

"I doubt that you'd have time to spare," Hermione replied, knowing that Tom had gone to New York to walk through the properties he owned there, as well as search for more to invest in. She heard from more than one source that Tom toyed with developers and realtors as others would with board games or childish spells as if they meant little to him. They were there for entertainment alone, yet there was no denying he was successful at what he did: the numerous, online articles attested to that, alongside the constant adoration _Witch Weekly_ showered upon him. 

She wanted to scoff at that thought –

Only she couldn’t.

( _Why_?)

“I’d always have time for you,” Tom murmured, the stark _need_ in his tone making her swallow. When had someone ever wanted her – needed her – for herself? “I already do – haven’t I shown you that, Hermione?”

Hermione shivered, remembering the night they’d spent together…

He'd invited her over for dinner, and she'd found herself unable to refuse when he hinted that he would make a cherry cheesecake for dessert. (How had he known her favorite?)

She’d gone to his apartment after work and hadn’t questioned why she’d swiped blush over her cheeks, and lip gloss over her lips. She’d smoothed her hair into a chignon, pairing a cream-colored blouse with dark wash jeans, and found herself more excited than she cared to admit.

She knew that Tom knew about her family – how could he not when he was a part of the wizarding world? There was no one that hadn’t heard of the Grangers, the same as she knew of his ancestress, Medusa. He didn’t seem to judge her for her family, and she found their dinner delightful.

More than delightful if she was honest.

He made her laugh, and she’d relished the taste of the homemade cheesecake on her tongue. It was better than the one her grandmother made, and he’d grinned when she told him so. “ _I often bake when I’m stressed_. _It’s a familial trait, I fear. My Uncle was as mad as a hare, as were the people that devoured his creations._ ” Tom drawled, in his sardonic way, and she’d tilted her head and fluttered her eyelashes at him. She’d learned something from her old classmate, Lavender Brown, after all.

“ _Do I make you nervous?_ ” she’d asked.

He’d half-smiled at her question, though his eyes flickered with something she couldn’t name. “ _More than you will ever know, witch_.”

(Was he telling the truth?)

Their time hadn’t ended there, as Hermione found herself accepting Tom’s outstretched hand, and allowed him to lead her into his bedroom.

It was more than she had ever known, the sheer sensation of his fingers skimming across her skin, as he undressed her. “ _Perfection_ ,” Tom whispered, as he turned her to face him, and saw her rosy nipples, and the gentle curve of her stomach that led to the dip of her hips. She flushed beneath his praise, her blush spreading from her cheeks down to her chest.

“ _Do you want me, Mr. Riddle_?” she’d asked, and the look in his eyes told her everything that she wanted to know. She knew he could see the same in hers; thoughts swirling of licking him from his shaft down to his very tip, and the warm seed that would trickle from it. She wanted him in a dozen ways; her fingers skimming his smooth, silky skin. His scales were beautiful to her, regardless of how they might scare another.

He was perfect.

“ _Tom_ ,” he said lowly, “ _Call me Tom, my darling girl_.”

And she had, over and over again.

He demanded all of her as he took her in his bedroom, a place where he whispered no woman had been before. His silk sheets felt heavenly against her skin, but she had only been aware of him. He’d buried his face between her thighs, and she’d grasped his dark curls in her hands, tugging on them relentlessly as he lapped away at her nub.

It felt like more than lust then, as flames leaped and burst beneath her skin. It felt like he wanted to consume her, as he suckled and licked between her folds, and he was everything to her then, and more.

“ _Tom, oh –_ “she’d cried, and her moans were everything he’d wanted to hear. They rose and fell with her pleasure, turning from ragged mewls to desperate pants, as she clawed at his skin. She wanted more of what he had to give, she wanted _everything_ that he could give. “ _More, please, more_ – “

If he’d stopped, she would have cried, but he hadn’t, no – he’d pleasured her with his lips and his tongue, and when she came, she saw her slick stained his cheeks, and his swollen, greedy mouth. She’d kissed him then and tasted herself on his tongue; her musky, heady taste that she didn’t shy away from licking off him.

“ _Ravishing_ ,” he whispered, “ _simply ravishing, sweetheart_.”

Nor did they finish there, as he soon covered her body with his own, and thrust his member deep inside her. Her legs circled him and her heels dug into his buttocks, pressing him close. She wanted everything from him, the same as she wanted him to take everything from her. Passion danced between them, unfiltered and bright.

" _Can you feel me inside you?_ ” Tom asked, nipping at her earlobe. “ _Can you feel how hard I am? I want you Hermione, more than I’ve wanted anyone before_.”

Hermione found that she believed him, as he entwined his fingers around hers, and pinned her hands above her head. She had never felt like this, not with anyone before –

It felt as if he were marking her soul.

He used her body as if she belonged to him, and she found herself desperately moaning with ecstasy. There was no part of her that he abandoned, as he caught her lips with his own, as he rode her. His member was soaked in her juices as he pounded inside her, going deeper each time before she felt as if he would fill her wholly and completely.

“ _Fuck me Tom_ – “she’d panted, “ _Make me forget everything and everyone but you_ – “

“ _I want nothing more_ ,” he said, his lips curling upward.

He’d taken her in every way one could imagine, though Hermione found she liked being on her hands and her knees for him best. He’d pressed his chest against her back and dragged his teeth along her neck, making her tremble beneath him. She knew she would have bruises later and found herself wetter at the thought. She wanted to be marked as his, with bruises that she wouldn’t be able to hide.

_His, his, his_ -

He’d thrust inside her weeping cunt, and rubbed circles against her clit, until she couldn’t hold herself up any longer. He’d wrapped his arms around her waist then, holding her up as he canted his hips against hers. He made her feel small and safe against him, as he rested his weight against her. She couldn’t get away, even if she’d wanted to, and she adored the heat in his gaze when she looked over her shoulder at him. “ _More_ ,” she moaned, “ _More, Tom, more –_ “

He’d given her everything and more, flooding his release inside her. She wasn’t afraid of his release, having cast a contraceptive spell before he took her. With magic in her very blood, she had little fear of the consequences; knowing that her spell would hold.

And by Merlin, Hermione was glad for it –

For there was nothing that she could think of but him, and the ache inside her still. She wanted more, she wanted everything that he had to give until her sopping quim was a bundle of frenzied nerves. Her fingers were nothing compared to his, as he stroked her quivering folds.

“ _Tom_!” Hermione cried.

He was as merciless as she could never be, his touch unrelenting as he drove her further toward her peak. A night with her vibrator was nothing compared to him fucking her, and Hermione struggled in her hold. She felt her peak coming, coming, coming – and she wanted to break from his hold.

" _I wanted you the moment I saw you_ ,” Tom confessed, and she found herself believing him. There was a frenzied lust behind his touch, one that ignited her body and her soul.

Had anyone adored her so, before?

(The lonely girl inside recognized the lonely boy that hid inside him.)

“ _I wanted you as well_ ,” Hermione said, nipping at her bottom lip. “ _I still do_.”

Cum dripped down her thighs until he’d chased it away with his tongue, lapping at her again until she cried out his name, and couldn’t stand his touch any longer. She was overwhelmed by his touch, and her body felt more alive than it ever had before. He moved to lay beside her and nuzzled his cheek against hers; whispering that he understood.

“ _Stay with me tonight_ ,” he murmured, even as the sun rose outside his window. “ _Don’t leave me, sweetheart_.” And she hadn’t - she collapsed in his arms, and they slept well into the following afternoon.

They’d made a late breakfast together after, Hermione fixing a pot of coffee while Tom made toast and scrambled eggs. They ate together at his high table, before taking a shower together –

And Hermione had left after, with hickeys trailing down her neck and an ache between her legs, that she chose not to heal. She lived in a small cottage nearby, her one break from the constant time she spent at the store. Yet as she crossed the handful of blocks away from the store, and Tom's apartment, she felt the distance keenly.

“ _I don’t know what to think about it_ ," she'd admitted to Minerva later when she looked at her phone and saw that Tom had put his number in it. "About him."

Did he want something serious?

Did she?

Hermione hadn’t spoken to him after, not in the same way as before. He joined her on her morning runs where they said little, though she couldn’t help but be aware of him in ways that she never had been before. Her heart fluttered the same as when he slipped lines from classical novels into her mail, remembering, and sharing her love for them as no one else ever had. He was a man, the same that he was a beast, and he displayed his humanity well.

He was tall and lean, like the rabbits she joked that he must eat, and it was only the lift of his brow and the suggestive curl of his mouth that hinted at something _more_. He wore tailored suits that fit him like a second skin and leather shoes that would never crack or fade. Hermione found the very smell of him a reminder of the night she'd spent beneath his sheets; something sharp yet tangy, like cinnamon and cloves drowning in honey.

She couldn't forget the feel of his canines as they pierced her skin, nor the feel of his tongue as he chased away the beads of sweat from her collarbone. She ached with need when he was near, and she found herself distracted; thinking of how he could take her against the very shelves in her store, or against the oak tree on the path that they ran. She wanted him inside her, on top of her, in any way that he would have her –

She wanted all of him.

“When will you be back?” Hermione asked, twisting a stray curl around her finger. “We could do something then,” she hesitated, licking her lips, “if you’d like?”

Maine was gorgeous in the Autumn when the leaves came into their own; turning vibrant, colorful shades, and the animals prepared for Winter. Hermione enjoyed slipping through the vast forests, with nothing but her camera, and a basket that soon teetered full of mushrooms and the prettiest of leaves. They all had a place and a purpose in her shop, and Hermione found joy in fashioning some of the potions she sold by her hand, and charms as well.

She remembered what her relatives taught her, and often took time to fashion a flower crown as well; even if she wore it only through the forest and abandoned it after the day was done. It was something that she had never shared with another, besides Minerva, who would trail faithfully behind her, or scatter through the leaves, chasing after a chattering squirrel or squeaking chipmunk.

“What if I said I don’t want to wait?” Tom replied, and she couldn’t help but smirk. There was a part of her that didn’t want him to know how eager she was for another encounter, while another part of her wanted him to. “What if I want you here with me, tonight?”

“Do you think Minerva could watch the store on her own?” Hermione countered and giggled at his low exhale. His frustration was amusing to her, the same as his confidence was; for they both knew they wanted to see each other again. “I couldn’t just close the store on such short notice – “

"I'll have someone watch it for you," Tom replied, "A handful of my best men if you'd like, any of whom could sell the finest whiskey or the vilest of beers to a teetotal without a false word.”

“Tonight, you said?” Hermione asked, reaching down to pet her familiar. Minerva nuzzled her ankles with her furry cheek, before flopping down on her back. She had a thatch of grey fur on her tummy, a sign of her aging; and Hermione couldn’t help but smile as she scratched her belly.

"Tonight," Tom said, his voice lowering. "I want you on my arm and in my bed if you'll have me again."

She swallowed, feeling desire flare inside her.

"And again, and again," Hermione hummed. No matter how cheesy it sounded, they both knew they wouldn't stop at fucking just once. And Hermione could admit if only to herself, that she wanted to see him again – she didn't want to keep avoiding him, or send Minerva in her stead, with her rent money tucked into an envelope, and pinned to her collar.

Tipping her head back, Hermione closed her eyes as she remembered the way that Tom had drawn his lips over her freckles, and traced lines between them with his tongue. They were constellations, he'd whispered, and she'd never felt more adored. "Tonight," Hermione whispered, as only a woman who knew that a man wanted her, one that she wanted, in turn, could. "I'll see you tonight if you send for me."

“I will,” Tom murmured, “You know that I will.”

(And he did.)

**Author's Note:**

> Connect with me: https://januarywren.carrd.co/ 🌹
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by weeRedVixen and MetalVenomLudens! Thank you both for your help, I couldn't have uploaded this without you! 🦝🖤


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